


Stars

by Slytora



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Crack Relationships, Don't copy to another site, F/F, I love this ship, Light Angst, huntara is a flirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 11:03:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20096215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytora/pseuds/Slytora
Summary: She was, Huntara knew, a terrible person. She was also fighting for the Rebellion, single-minded in her determination for revenge, and willing to push her body to death to achieve it. It was like watching a desert beast chase its food for days on end, falling hundreds of feet only to get up again, failing over and over, strength dwindling by the day, for that taste of flesh and gristle, and never giving up. It was a conflicting mixture of horrifying and admirable.





	Stars

**Author's Note:**

> I'm honestly not sure how people will react to this ship, but I also don't really care.

There wasn’t a moment to breathe after the events of time and space collapsing in on itself. There had never been much time to breathe in the Crimson Waste, either, so all things considered, Huntara didn’t notice it too much.   
  
In the halls of Brightmoon Castle, there was strategizing and arguing, a power vacuum that shook the Rebellion to their foundations. All things came to head, as they always were going to, with tears. For all the hope that gathered around them after She-Ra had returned with her sword to come crashing down, it was no wonder Princess Glimmer had only lasted as long as she did, before her composure trembled and her resolve faltered, and she ripped a little at the seams. 

Adora and Bow had taken her outside. Huntara watched from the castle tower, watched as they spread out over a blanket with snacks and warm, fizzy drinks, and remembered. Staring up at the sky couldn’t have brought too much comfort, but it was something.

The stars above their heads were something alien and wrong. Pinprick eyes were poked into the fabric of the universe, a facet Huntara had never imagined, never had to adapt to in her life. The stars watched their every move; whether it was with judgement, or the aloofness of eternity, had yet to be discovered.

Most curious of all was the slender figure passing along the outskirts of the castle. She moved like her name, as though woven from shadows, solid as a lucid dream. Her game was a mystery, her desires nebulous, and Huntara trusted her about as much as she trusted the stars in the sky. 

As with all things that were strange, or mysterious, or a challenge, Huntara chose to face them head on. 

With that in mind, she forwent the stairs and leapt, nimble as a mountain goat, from the tower. Alcoves from windows and nicks in the otherwise perfectly smooth tower made for a quick descent. She landed with a flourish, her weapon clear and visible on her back: an open warning. 

Unsurprisingly, it was Shadow-Weaver who spoke first. 

“What?” 

The question was testy and rigid, and for all the poise in Shadow-Weaver’s fluid form, Huntara knew prey when she saw it. She knew what it looked like when a desert rabbit fled from the fox. 

“Didn’t peg you as one for late night strolls,” said Huntara, despite having not pegged Shadow-Weaver for anything, other than a tyrant under Hordak’s rule, and a woman compensating for too many insecurities. She gave the book in Shadow-Weaver’s hands a pointed look. “Is it good?”

“I wasn’t aware you could read,” said Shadow-Weaver, a clear sign of their standing, and testament to what she thought of Huntara. Her next words were pitched slow and arrogant, aimed to pierce. “It is magic—not a subject I imagine you are familiar with, nor ever will be, as it is something of a higher form of education learned only by—”

“So you came out here, at night, with no light, to read a book,” said Huntara, verbally stomping over her. “I guess you have good night vision.”

“Better than yours,” said Shadow-Weaver, in a moment of true adolescent pique that made Huntara’s lips curl despite herself. 

“I don’t need night vision to spot value,” said Huntara, on pure reflex, from years of flirting with waitresses and maids and really any other pretty women she could find in the Crimson Wastes. It wasn’t on her agenda for tonight, nor was it to witness Shadow-Weaver draw back, as though stung, going completely, dead silent. Huntara, with a bed of nails already made, and a rickety grave beneath it, grabbed the shocked silence by the reigns. 

She had always been a “Go big, or go home,” kind of person, anyway. 

“I guess you’ve got more than a book planned tonight, hmm?”

“I have not,” said Shadow-Weaver, the twitch in her fingers and languid, considering way she spoke either a sign of her confusion, or Huntara’s imminent demise—or both. “It is a riveting book and I would hate to be distracted from it, though, so do move along.”

Death wasn’t in the immediate future, then. 

“How long will that book take? You’re what, halfway through it? Three-quarters?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“You see, there’s this nice place—”

“No.”

Huntara was not on her game tonight. Then again, it was Shadow-Weaver, and she had a chip on her shoulder bigger  
than the Great Crimson Divide, and she shouldn’t have been surprised. Just as she was considering that guard—the tall, handsome woman with a scar over her nose that might have been interested—Shadow-Weaver moved again, a slender hand brushing through dark hair. 

“I don’t care for taverns.”

“That’s great!” said Huntara, jumping aboard the runaway train, because who knew when it was going to crash, but it was bound to make one hell of a ride. “I know a couple places that aren’t taverns. Good places. Not rowdy at all.”

Well, the people weren’t actively ripping each other’s throats out. Anywhere wasn’t rowdy compared to the places Huntara used to frequent, but Shadow-Weaver didn’t need to know that. It wasn’t as though she was a stranger to white lies. 

“I may... consider it,” said Shadow-Weaver, aloof as ever, book in hand as though she could read a single word in the dark. 

“So, ten o’clock tomorrow? Eleven?”

“I said that I would consider it,” snapped Shadow-Weaver waspishly, “not that it is a guaranteed activity in the immediate future.”

“So, eleven o’clock tomorrow?”

“You are aware I could kill you?” said Shadow-Weaver. “With a twitch of my fingers.”

Huntara bit back a response that would have definitely killed her by the strength of surviving decades, alone, in the desert. 

“No one beats Huntara,” she said, slamming her hand on the pommel of her weapon, pretending the way she played her fingers down the side was for intimidation, and nothing else. 

“I believe my dear Adora has already done so,” said Shadow-Weaver, warm and boasting, and Huntara finally figured out what it was about her voice that was so compelling. It was the smokiness, curling in tendrils around her head, as though her speech alone held magic. 

“No one defeats Huntara twice,” she amended, distracted enough that she couldn’t take too much offense.   
Shadow-Weaver hummed in response, closing the book and stowing it—somewhere in her robes. She clasped a hand under one elbow, head tilted thoughtfully. Huntara had heard wicked rumors about the face under that mask, and wondered if they were true. 

“We shall see,” said Shadow-Weaver, turning to look out over the kingdom that she hadn’t seen in a very long while. Whether it was with contempt, or a grudging fondness, Huntara had no idea. They had all made mistakes, all hurt people, and paid the price for it. There was no telling if Shadow-Weaver realized it, or if she thought her place in the kingdom of light was due to her own clever manipulation. 

She was, Huntara knew, a terrible person. She was also fighting for the Rebellion, single-minded in her determination for revenge, and willing to push her body to death to achieve it. It was like watching a desert beast chase its food for days on end, falling hundreds of feet only to get up again, failing over and over, strength dwindling by the day, for that taste of flesh and gristle, and never giving up. It was conflicting mixture of horrifying and admirable. 

“Very well,” said Shadow-Weaver, drawing Huntara out of her reverie. “Tomorrow at eight o’clock. There is a clearing in which we can test your prowess. I am, first and foremost, a teacher. Perhaps I can make a pupil of you.”

Huntara grinned, nodded, and knew that the lessons tomorrow were going to have nothing to do with magic or fighting, and that Shadow-Weaver wasn’t going to be doing the teaching. 

With that in mind, Huntara swept into a shallow bow, swiping out to grasp Shadow-Weaver’s gloved hand and brush a kiss against her knuckles, enjoying the intake of breath that was equal parts furious and confused. 

Huntara swung off the ledge they had occupied, ignoring Shadow-Weaver’s shouted threats, and vanished into the night. 

All the while, the stars watched above, ever vigilant to shifting passages of time.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what brought this on, but I love it. Can this be a bigger thing? Because like. I really want this to be a bigger thing, please. 
> 
> You can scream at me on [Tumblr](https://toraptor.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
